Just a Little Game of Poker, Wright
by Blackwidina
Summary: Follows my first fic, 'Just a Little Help, Wright.'  Apollo still wants to help out the Wrights, and it looks like Trucy has just the idea.  Phoenix/Apollo  Rated for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

The Ace Attorney games, their characters and settings, etc., are property of Capcom, and are being used here without permission. I'm making no profit from this. In fact, probably a deficit, in terms of time and college GPA.

Spoilers through Apollo Justice, obviously. This follows my (first) AA fic, 'Just a Little Help, Wright.' That said, I doubt you need to read that to get this. Enjoy!

* * *

**Just a Little Game of Poker**

Phoenix Wright was pulled from his law book (well, technically one of Mia's,) as the office door opened to reveal Apollo and Trucy, both laughing at some shared joke. His heart constricted oddly at the sight of them acting like a couple of kids. Trucy'd always been suspiciously like Pearl Fey—half adult and half child, and it was kind of hilarious watching Apollo be dragged, kicking and screaming, from his shell. It brought back a lot of memories, all of which were much more appreciated because they weren't being recreated on _him_ this time.

"Hi, Daddy!" Trucy gushed. "Polly and me went shopping and he helped me get some more school clothes!"

Phoenix twitched a little. Apollo was glaring at him, as if daring him to say something. He'd insisted on 'helping' the two of them more and more, lately, especially as his reputation grew. Despite Nick paying him back for the electric bill on the very next case that miraculously had a _paying_ client, Apollo stubbornly kept pitching in. He was smarter about it though, thinking that Nick wouldn't notice or mind the extra food that kept appearing in the cabinets (he insisted that it was for him, but only Phoenix ate that particular flavor of Snackoos,) or the new set of interlocking rings that appeared after Trucy accidentally dropped hers down a storm drain. And now, school clothes. Just the other day, Trucy had been complaining that all of her 'mundane' clothes were worn to rags, and now Apollo was buying her new ones.

He took a deep breath to force himself to relax, lest the two of them pick it up. Trucy showed off her new acquisitions briefly, then had to run and change for her show that night.

Apollo whistled to himself as he pulled a chair up to a corner of Nick's desk, reaching for his briefcase.

"Have fun?" he asked mildly.

The young lawyer's answering grin was infectious. "Shopping? Is never fun. But for the rest of the day, I think so. We stopped by the Detention Center, where, believe it or not, my client was actually talkative. Then we snooped around with Ema at the crime scene. I've got all I need to punch a hole in the prosecution's allegations tomorrow!"

"A cooperative client? You've stumbled upon a rare breed, my friend."

"No kidding. Of course, now I've probably jinxed myself, but I've pulled myself out of worse. Trucy'll be there though, so I'm not too worried."

"Trucy'll what?" said the girl as she left the bedroom, looking much more herself. "Pull a rabbit out of her hat? Defy gravity? Make the courtroom disappear? Whatever you need, you've got the Wright magician for the job!" She struck a dramatic pose.

Apollo and Phoenix groaned together at the pun.

"I'm still not sure the world's quite ready for you, Truce," Phoenix smirked. "Going to work?"

"Yup! Got all my gear ready. You're not working tonight, are you?"

"Nope. Pull a double tomorrow, though. Apparently, the owner invited a troupe of famous poker champs to...er, try the Borscht."

She giggled, "Riiight. Do you want me to come with you?"

The older man considered, his brows drawing together. "If you're working tonight, and going to court with Apollo tomorrow morning, you'll be much too tired to help me."

"Oh!" Trucy looked surprised. "I hadn't thought of that!"

Apollo blinked, then scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "Truce, you don't need to go to court with me tomorrow. You should get some sleep, and help your dad tomorrow night."

"But...I want to go with you, Polly!"

"I'll have other cases, y'know."

"We worked so hard, though! I want to see you rub the evidence in the prosecutor's face! Not that I don't like Klavier, but really, by now he should know better than to try and beat you!" She looked fierce in thought for a moment, then brightened. "I know! Polly, I'll go with you to court, and then you can go help Daddy with his games!"

"Say what?"

"Wait, take Apollo with me? Are you serious?"

"Why not? Apollo has the same gift as me, right? Except he can things even _I_ can't!" Trucy jumped up and down excitedly. "And you can show him our signals! Oh, Polly, you'd be _great_ at it!"

"Uh. . . don't you think it's a bad idea for an _attorney_ to go around breaking the law?"

"Polly! Your own mentor was a murderer, remember? I think a little gambling is a small price to pay, so to speak. You _said_ you wanted to help! This way you can!"

". . .Do I get a say in this, Truce?"

"Absolutely not, Daddy. You're taking Polly and that's final."

"..." "..."

"All right then, I'm off to work! See you in the morning, Polly!"

The door shut behind her, leaving two very befuddled males behind.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Apollo and Phoenix faced off over the coffee table. It had taken a while to find a deck of cards—Trucy had several, but most of them were altered or trick decks. They were _mostly_ sure that this one was clean, though, and Apollo was trying to memorize all the possible hands.

"Mr. Wright, I-"

"Phoenix. Or Nick."

"Whatever. It's not like I'm going to be able to see the opposing hand, anyway, so why am I having to learn this?"

"Because part of the signals involves the level of tension. The opponent will be much more emotional if he's holding a full house than if he's got two of a kind. Make sense? The signals are variable, depending on what you can sense, and that's what I work with."

"So, what happens if I can't tell between a winning hand and a bluff?"

"A winning hand would have more positive emotions. Trucy said it's like the difference between watching a person who's waiting for her to pull off a big trick, and watching someone who's expecting a guilty verdict."

"That . . . sort of makes sense. So, we're just going to play? Do we need chips, or something?"

Phoenix looked thoughtful. "That might be a good idea, if I'm trying to show how this works. Higher stakes, higher emotions, right? Tell you what. Whoever wins each hand, gets to ask a question. Any question. Sound good?"

Apollo's eyes widened comically, his mind immediately crowded with all the questions he'd ever wanted to ask his hero. "Uh...okay."

The other smirked. "And, in the interest of fairness, I guess I'd better make it easy on you." To his partner's shock, he started pulling off his hoodie, almost losing his undershirt in the process.

Apollo blushed, hard, trying not to look as the older man tugged his white T-shirt back down over his stomach. Then he forgot all about modesty as the beanie was the next to go. "Holy shit—it's really that spiky?" He clapped his hands over his mouth, humiliated that his internal censor had let that one slide.

Phoenix just laughed, genuinely amused. "Yeah, I get that reaction a lot. It's all natural."

He couldn't help himself. "I _object_! That hairstyle _defies_ nature."

"Okay, so I was born in a wind tunnel. Sue me."

After a few moments, they managed to settle down enough to begin their game. They did a couple of practice rounds, just to get Apollo acclimatized to the procedure and various hands, and then—using some spare change Trucy had left in an ashtray, started to play.

Apollo quickly discovered that Phoenix was good. _Really_ good. And there was a _reason_ that he wore the iconic hobo getup—while his _face_ was perfectly unreadable, he had two blatant tells—his shoulders would tighten up, and—if he had a really good hand, his ears would twitch, slightly, as the tension crept up from his shoulders to his neck. The hoodie and beanie would hide-or at least distract-anyone watching those two areas.

Regardless, Phoenix won the first real round, and smirked, "So. What made you decide to be a defense attorney?"

An easy question, if somewhat embarrassing. But then, who didn't already know? "Because I thought you were the coolest guy on the face on the planet, duh." At his boss' smirk, he quickly added, "I've learned better since then."

All he got was a laugh. The next hand also went to Phoenix. "You were only a teenager when I was practicing. Why were you so interested in courtroom proceedings?"

Urg. That was a little more personal. "I . . . I'm an orphan." He noticed Phoenix's face becoming suddenly more serious. "I did foster care for a while, after I turned thirteen. After a certain age, they figure you're not going to be adopted, I guess. While I was at one of the homes, a kid was killed at the orphanage. Another kid, one I knew, was accused. You defended him."

"I remember that case," Phoenix said quietly. "It turned out to be one of the caretakers."

Apollo nodded, "I know. But the prosecution took that caretaker's word that one of the older kids had done it. Just because he was an orphan. Because, you know, us kids without real families aren't capable of being anything other than hoodlums, I guess." He winced at his own sarcasm. "Billy, the kid you defended, he was like me. Too old to adopt, too young to just throw out into the world. Everyone thought it was just natural that he was bitter and angry and took it out on one of others. You were the only one that thought to dig deeper. You spent two days in court, fighting a system that sure as hell seems to let the prosecution slide on nothing more than 'decisive testimony,' and won." He grinned, "And for the record, I'm not the only member of your fan club. If you'd gone back to the orphanage after winning the case, you'd have been mobbed."

Phoenix grinned sheepishly, looking both pleased and embarrassed. "Well, it was . . . you know. The right thing to do. I only defend innocent clients, you know. Well, aside from an exception, here and there. And then I made sure they were found guilty."

"Matt Engarde, you mean?"

"Hey. You ask questions when you win."

Three hands later, Phoenix now knew that Apollo genuinely liked the color red, that he was a dog person, and that he was a fellow acrophobic. Nice, innocent questions, but now he geared up to ask something a lot tougher.

Apollo noted his boss' shoulders moving again, and had to fight not to look suspicious. They hadn't even dealt the cards yet. Phoenix must be planning to ask another personal question. Probably something he wouldn't want to answer. He looked down at his hand, brow furrowing as he moved them around, trying to see if he had anything decent.

"Cards?"

"...Two."

Phoenix slid over a couple of cards, and Apollo stared at them, trying to figure out his hand and watch his boss at the same time. Multitasking like this made him feel a couple of steps behind, so he was a little slow when Phoenix made his first bet. A second, later, Apollo realized he had a full house. "Uh, sure. And I'll raise you." He pushed a little pile of coins forward.

Phoenix's face, naturally, didn't change. He merely tilted his head, bored expression in place, and raised the stakes.

Apollo considered, then raised again. It was the first time he'd done such a thing, and thus, for the first time, he was able to see the heightened energy around Phoenix. But his ears were still.

He was bluffing.

"Moment of truth," Phoenix said, carelessly. "You?"

Apollo laid his hand down. Phoenix smirked and tossed his down. "Good job, Polly. You called my bluff. Now, how did you know?"

"You already know how I know."

"Nonsense. If I knew what my own giveaways were, I wouldn't do them."

Out of habit, Apollo replied, "Objection. You wear a hat and hoodie_ because_ you already know what your tells are. That's also why you took them off at the beginning, to, and I quote: 'make it easy' on me."

Phoenix chuckled, "Okay, you win that round, too."

Apollo rolled his eyes. "You let me win, didn't you. There's no way I didn't give myself away."

"True. In fact, I was considering letting _you_ wear the beanie. That's some mighty expressive hair you've got there."

He self-consciously tugged at his spikes. "So I've been told."

"Well? What's your question, then?"

"Uhhh..." Apollo's mind raced for a moment, but his curiosity had been piqued earlier, "Your first guilty client. Matt Engarde."

"_Only _guilty client, thank you. What about him?"

"Well, I know what the public was told, and what was on the court records, but I was kind of curious about the prosecutor on that case."

_OW._ His bracelet suddenly _pinched_ like nothing else.

"...What about him?" Phoenix's tone was suddenly much less inviting, and Apollo realized this was a subject he'd best tread lightly on.

"Well, I mean, I know who he is—Miles Edgeworth—and I just. . . he reminds me a lot of Klavier Gavin, and I was wondering if you two were friends."

Phoenix relaxed a little bit, there, allowing Apollo to rub at where it had begun digging a trench in his wrist. "Yes. Miles and I were friends. We met as kids, then again as lawyers. I decided to become a defense attorney because of the way he talked about his dad, and because he himself defended me back then."

Apollo looked at him skeptically, "Is that all? Your reaction is killing me, here."

The other glanced down at Apollo's bracelet and grimaced. "There's more. A lot more. But even if you ask, I don't think I want to share. It was a long time ago, and it's been a long time since I've seen Miles. He's practiced law abroad for several years. Now, let's play again."

"I think we need another handicap. Give me that beanie."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The Ace Attorney games, their characters and settings, etc., are property of Capcom, and are being used here without permission. I'm making no profit from this.

Spoilers through Apollo Justice, obviously.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Apollo felt...slightly ridiculous.

Sure, it was his idea, but wearing The Beanie on his head really just. . . thank God there wasn't a mirror, if Phoenix's open smirk were any judge. Still, he knew he had to hide his 'expressive hair,' if he wanted to start winning more.

"Maybe you should just wear a mask? I'm sure Trucy's got a few around here, somewhere."

"Shut up, old man."

"Or at least the hoodie? I mean, there are so many jokes I could make right now about desperate fanboys. . ."

"_Deal the cards, dammit."_

Still chuckling, Phoenix dealt again, and the game was on.

Two minutes later, Apollo sighed in defeat. "All right, ask away."

"Don't feel bad, kid. You've already beaten a champion once."

"You only lost the hand, not the game."

"Touche. Now, my question, Apollo Justice." Phoenix's face suddenly went deadly serious, and Apollo's bracelet pinched hard again, and though a blind person could have seen the dangerous aura around the man, Apollo was more attuned to the hand that slid inside the pocket of his jeans. "What are your intentions toward Trucy?"

_WHAT THE...? _For a moment, all Apollo could do was stare in disbelief. Then, realizing just what Phoenix was getting at, he started to laugh.

"Apollo!"

"N-_no_! Whatever you're thinking, not a _chance_!" He had a stitch in his side, he was laughing so hard.

Phoenix relaxed considerably. "Well, you're not hiding anything, that's for sure."

His guffaws had finally died down to very unmanly giggles. "Not about _Trucy_, no! She's my friend, yes. Probably my best friend, if only because I don't really have anyone else. But that grape juice has been fermenting in that brain of yours if you honestly think I have any romantic interest in her." A thought seized his mind, and he froze in horror. "Unless . . . did she . . . she doesn't . . . oh god, please say no."

Now Phoenix was the one fighting laughter. "No, no. I was just . . . being protective, I guess."

Apollo's look of terror faded a little. "Okay, then. Trucy's like a little sister to me, like I've said before," he shook his head in amusement. "In any case, let's play again. I think I'm getting a handle on this."

Another few hands went by, and Apollo was feeling a touch cornered. The boss had asked about his first grade-school crush (his third grade music teacher), his first kiss (stolen by some random girl in his class who'd apparently lost a bet), and his first date, which he still hadn't had.

"Really, Polly? No dating?"

Apollo sulked. "And I'm so sure _you_ were the pimp king of LA."

Phoenix snerked. "Actually, my first and only girlfriend was . . . well, complicated. Technically, her name was Iris, but I knew her as Dahlia."

Apollo's spikes twitched in recognition under the beanie. "Those names . . . I think I remember that case."

The other nodded, looking a bit sour. "Turned out I was fooled by a pair of twins."

The brunette grabbed the bottle of grape juice that was sitting at his feet and took a swallow. "So, what happened afterward? Why didn't you and she. . . you know, get together?"

"Okay, can I take a moment to say how hilarious it is to see you wearing my hat, drinking a bottle of grape juice? _Please_, can I talk you into wearing the hoodie? And I know I've got another camera in here . . . "

"Absolutely not. When was the last time you washed that thing?"

"Probably more frequently than the hat."

"I didn't hear that. Answer the question."

"Win a hand, first."

It took another two hands before Apollo was able to bluff a win. Even Phoenix seemed surprised when they revealed their hands.

"You're getting better."

"All right, out with it. Why didn't you get back together with D-er, Iris?"

Phoenix pursed his lips in annoyance, "Hey, I backed off of you, didn't I?"

"Yes, the backpedaling and asking of stupid questions was duly noted. As if you _really _thought I would make off with your Steel Samurai crap. Though I may have spotted it in Trucy's room. Now, talk."

"I . . . wasn't interested."

Another pinch, and Apollo was easily able to see, not only the tensing in his shoulders, but the darting of his eyes as he tilted his head downward. A gesture that normally would have been hidden by the beanie brim. "You're lying."

A long sigh. "I was already in a relationship. A long-distance relationship, but still one I was very faithful to. Besides, I wasn't the same Feenie she knew back then."

Apollo tilted his head, thinking. "I guess that's fair." Something about the entire conversation bugged him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Come to think of it, what about that girl you were usually with? In the purple?"

"Maya? Uh..." Nick suddenly looked incredibly uncomfortable. "I . . . wasn't really . . . myself. After my disbarment. I . . . cut contact with a lot of my friends. Maya's the Master of the Kurain Channeling Technique, so she was pretty busy anyway. She and Pearls still write me, but . . ."

Apollo saw Nick swallow, and felt like crap for pressing him. "It must have been so hard. I'm sorry."

"It's . . . it's okay, now. Having Trucy around gave me a reason to keep fighting back. I just . . . I couldn't face the others." He was quiet for a few moments. "Now that it's all over . . . I don't think I could just go back to the way things were. It's been too long."

Apollo shook his head, brows furrowing. "You never know till you try. And if Maya and Pearl are still trying to reach you, that's a place to start, isn't it? And you've been friends with Mr. Edgeworth for years-"

A _pinch_, "How the hell did you know that?"

The younger smirked, "Ex-fanboy, remember? There was that article in the paper about the two of you."

"Oh, God, that. I remember. Miles was _pissed._ I had to talk him out of suing. Though as I recall, he knocked the hell out of Larry for talking to his reporter girlfriend." The corner of Phoenix's mouth curled a little. "I think that was the first time he'd ever hit anybody. And of course, it _would_ be Larry."

"Larry Butz? The _other_ childhood friend? Is he a lawyer, too?"

"Dear God, no." Phoenix looked horrified at the suggestion.

"So what about-"

"Why is it that when I win, I ask one question, and when you win, you ask twenty?"

_Because you need me to_, Apollo thought to himself. _You've probably needed to talk to someone for years. With every hand I win, it's like you wind down just a little more. How long have you kept all this bottled up? All seven years?_ Straightening his shoulders, he replied confidently, "It's because of my amazing lawyerly abilities"

"Lawyerly isn't a word."

"Says who?"

"Miles Edgeworth." With a tone that suggested the Word of God would be less firm.

". . . Had this conversation before, have you?"

"Worst game of Scrabble, _ever_."

"Fine. Deal the cards."

* * *

"Nick, you're cheating. You_ have_ to be."

"Where's your evidence?"

"Bring in a jury and they'll back me up."

"You're just mad because you're losing."

"Phoenix, I'm getting better at this with every hand. I know I am. Why am I still losing?"

"Because the more skilled you get, the less pity I'm going to take on you."

". . . Do you even really need me tomorrow night?"

"I've have a perfect record to maintain, remember? If I can beat you despite that damn bracelet of yours, that's all the better for me. But yes, I will need either you or Trucy."

It was like a goddamn light bulb went off in Apollo's head. "_Dammit_," he hissed.

Nick smirked a little. "Figured it out, have you?"

"My bracelet. Every time it tightens up, it gives both of us away."

"Very astute. Now, what do you plan to do about it?"

". . . ."

* * *

There was now decisive evidence of the night in the form of amateur digital photography: Apollo Justice, wearing his boss' hobo gear, drinking grape juice while hunched over a game of poker. And annoyingly enough, he couldn't help but notice how comfy and warm it was. Like . . . like a well broken-in pair of shoes. And it smelled like Phoenix. Which wasn't a bad thing. And he was irritated that it wasn't. Dammit, he wasn't some stupid fanboy anymore, right?

The only consolation at this point was that he was winning more and more games. Apollo picked easy questions, both feeling the need to mull over previous answers, and perhaps lull Phoenix into a sense of security for when he finally picked a big question to ask.

He felt like he usually did when there was that one bit of testimony he couldn't quite figure out. There was a contradiction somewhere, and if he just thought about it long enough, hard enough, he knew it would smack him in the face. Unfortunately, playing poker with Phoenix required a lot of attention.

"I win again!" Apollo crowed, laying his cards out. "Let's see . . . what did you study for fun in college?"

"Study? Fun? I sense a contradiction in there . . ."

"Well, you must have had electives, right? A minor? What did you do that wasn't law-related?"

"Ah. My first major ended up being my minor. I went to school to get a degree in Fine Arts."

Apollo just kind of stared in shock. "Wait, are you _serious_?"

"Completely. I thought you were a fan of _all_ my cases?"

"I . . . oh! The one that got Dahlia Hawthorne convicted! You _did_ say you were in the Art Department."

"And after that, thanks to my defense attorney, Mia Fey, I started focusing more on law. Miles may have sparked my interest in law, but it was Mia who helped me realize the potential a defense attorney has to change lives." Phoenix's brown eyes shown with absolute sincerity.

Apollo couldn't help but beam. "Wow. That's . . . well, it's kind of corny, but it makes me think of when you defended Billy."

Nick laughed a little, "See? We're not so different, after all, are we?"

"Well, considering that I'm seriously planning on helping you break the law, I'd say so. What kind of art did you . . . y'know, _do_? And please tell me it wasn't music. I think I'd have to break out the Chords of Steel for that particular obejction."

"Heaven forbid. Fine Arts, Apollo. Drawing, painting, things like that." He looked off to the side, suddenly looking a little shy. "I haven't done anything like that in years. Hell, couldn't afford to, even. They're called _starving_ artists for a reason."

Apollo nodded. "I met a few art majors in school. Seems like if they're not drawing, they're bitching about buying materials. Deal again. I'm on a roll."

Another hand, and Phoenix called his bluff with two pair. He leaned back, hands going into his pants pockets. "All right, Apollo. Answer me this: if you're not interested in Trucy, who _are _you interested in?"

Apollo froze. The bracelet _pinched_. HARD.

He had a front row seat to see Phoenix's pupils dilate slightly and dart around in a series of movements, like he was watching something in the air around Apollo. Startled, he glanced to either side, but saw nothing. He looked back at the man himself and saw him seemingly counting to himself. "Five, hm? Wonder what you're trying to hide," Phoenix muttered, almost too quietly to hear.

"Five what?"

Brown eyes snapped to his again, and his boss visibly willed himself to relax. "Nothing. Going to answer the question?"

" . . . No one."

"That was even more obvious than the bluff you just made."

"I'm not . . . interested in anyone."

"Pull the other leg. It's got bells on it."

He couldn't help a laugh at that. "Okay, fine. It's not that I'm not interested in anybody, but I sure as hell don't want to share."

"Aw, and here I thought we were becoming such good friends."

Dammit. Apollo could feel himself blushing, and his mind raced, trying to think of something, anything, to change the subject with."

"C'mon, now, Polly. Is it Ema? Trucy said you two get along like peas in a scientific pod." Phoenix's grin was positively _wicked_, even as his eyes still seemed to be glancing at things Apollo knew weren't there.

"H-hey! I let you slide on the Dahlia thing. Cut me some sla—oh! OH!" Several thoughts connected in his panicked brain, and the logic was like a sudden ball of light blinding him. "You . . . were in a long-distance relationship . . . that's part of why you didn't get back with her."

The tension across the table sky-rocketed, and Phoenix was suddenly sitting up straight, shoulders tense, looking for all the world like he'd just had a surprising bit of new evidence shoved in his unsuspecting face, "All right, I'm sorry I asked. I'll stop . . ." Nervously, he gripped his bottle of grape juice and took a long swallow.

"That case," Polly continued, feeling sort of dazed, "There were four lawyers. Two of them came from abroad just for it. A long-distance relationship . . ." He suddenly slammed both hands on the desk, and pointed, "_You were dating Franziska von Karma!_"

Phoenix did a spectacular spit-take.

TBC

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading! I really appreciate everyone who faved and alerted this story, as well. I've been having a lot of fun with this; it's been a long time since I wrote fanfiction.

Additionally, since I'm sure someone will ask: I write Phoenix's eyes as brown. Why? Because they are in-game. Those are the eyes I first fell for, and those are the eyes I will write Wright with. I'd love to kick the promotional bastards who dared mess with perfection.

Also, I think I'd kill for fanart of Apollo right now. Or at least write a oneshot.


	3. Chapter 3

Well. One couldn't be right all the time. Though Nick surely would have made an awful pun about it.

It was the next morning, and Apollo was facing off against Winston Payne, for which he was supremely grateful. After laughing himself half to death, his boss had quickly struck down any delusions of his dating Franziska von Karma, and then changed the subject to a lesson on signals. Apparently, Phoenix and Trucy had a million ways to convey the same information, and Apollo's brain was still reeling from the overload. At this point, every scratch of his nose, every twitch of his posture seemed laden with meaning.

Even worse, he was _exhausted_ because they'd stayed up, absorbed in the lesson, until Trucy had come home at two in the morning. She'd scolded them soundly, then sent them to bed. That in itself was a little awkward, since the office had two rooms—the main office with the fold-out couch, and the inner office, with was Trucy's bedroom—though Phoenix kept most of his clothes and things in there. Usually, Phoenix just sprawled out on the couch, but for the purpose of the impromptu sleep-over, he'd graciously folded out the bed, and they'd shared.

Which was why Apollo was exhausted.

Despite being genuinely tired, despite having used his ability to the point that his eyelids felt clogged with sand, despite knowing that he had a case in the morning, he just _could not_ make himself relax when his mentor, his hero—never mind what he'd blithely said about having learned better—lying in bed just a few inches away.

Phoenix, on the other hand, seemed to have no such problem, and had readily dropped off, leaving Apollo staring off into the office, trying to ignore the way he could damn near feel the heat from his boss' body radiating across the space between them. And trying to ignore that he was wearing a set of the man's clothes, which were just a touch too big on him. And definitely trying to ignore the urge to . . .

Apollo was gay. He'd always known. But he'd never told anyone, _ever._ When he was younger, he was terrified that such an admission would only make him even _less_ desirable than he already was. It was painful enough constantly being passed over by potential adopters and foster parents when they thought that he was a "normal" kid. Being gay on top of whatever else was apparently wrong with him? Yeah, not a good option.

So he'd hidden it, even from the few friends he'd had in the system. When he'd become an adult, the fear persisted. He didn't want to be alone, so he did everything he could to be accepted, following the crowds at college and doing whatever they did. It wasn't until his apprenticeship at Mr. Gavin's law firm that he'd started following his own desires a little more. Mr. Gavin had suspected, surely, but his advice to Apollo was simply to be himself. Apollo, grateful, had slowly been coming out of his shell, being more honest about his likes and dislikes, in all but one matter.

And now that 'matter,' was sleeping next to him.

Apollo slowly, carefully, rolled over so that he was facing Phoenix. He stared at the broad back and shoulders as they slowly moved with each deep breath.

It was kind of scary. Phoenix and Trucy were like . . . his family, in a way. He'd been so honest with them, more than with anyone else. He'd told Trucy to her face that he didn't like the music that she listened to, rather than just play along like he would have just a few years ago. He'd called Phoenix all sorts of unflattering things, and even _slugged_ him when the man had confessed to forging evidence. He was loud, generally sarcastic, and liked chicken and white sauce on his pizza, to their red-meat-loving horror. And they still kept him around.

Apollo wasn't stupid. He knew that he was in a lot of danger with this man. Hero-worship could easily turn into a childish crush (_and who's to say it already hasn't_, his mind snarked,) and the last thing he needed was to jeopardize his relationship with the only two people—because the Wrights sure as hell came as a pair—that had _finally_ given him the family he had always desperately craved.

No way would he let that happen.

Phoenix suddenly shifted, rolling over in his sleep, and Apollo's breath caught when suddenly they were facing each other. In the light from the office windows, he could see just how _young_ the other looked, even younger than in his old court videos.

Well, aside from the slight stubble. While he did deign to shave more often than he used to, some old habits—or non-habits, as the case may be—were dying hard. Apollo found himself wondering how it would feel, if he kissed Phoenix. Would it prickle? Would Phoenix's lips be hard or soft? What would they do with their hands? Apollo had a terrible desire to run his hands through those (in)famous spikes, and a kiss would be the perfect opportunity . . .

He mentally slapped himself, shutting off that train of thought. He _knew_ better. Those sorts of thoughts would only cause _problems _that he wasn't able to deal with right now. Not that he hadn't indulged a few times on his own, but right now, in Phoenix's bed (in the most platonic sense) was definitely not the time.

Particularly when the other two people in the house were probably two of the most perceptive he'd ever met.

Taking a quiet, deep breath, Apollo reminded himself of all the reasons he could never, _ever_ let his boss know that he was attracted to him. It was an old exercise, one he'd perfected in college, when it seemed every one of his dorm-mates, his classmates, any law professors under the age of 45, had been the perfect target for his long-suppressed hormones.

_Besides,'_ he reminded himself finally, feeling the weight of all the evidence behind his conviction, _'If Phoenix—Mr. Wright—were to be attracted to anyone, it's already clear what his type is. After all, his 'one and only girlfriend was that . . . was . . . oh, no fucking way._

If Iris had been Phoenix's 'one and only girlfriend,' as he'd claimed . . . then who had he been dating, that he didn't get back together with her?

The only logical answer was a man.

And judging by the evidence, including Phoenix's reaction to certain questions, that man was . . . Miles Edgeworth.

Apollo nearly shook with a mix of emotion. Shock, at realizing that Phoenix was into men—and to honest, half of the shock was in that Phoenix had _indulged_; part of Apollo still saw his preference as something shameful, to be hidden from anyone he didn't want to risk losing. For a moment, he felt a rush of hopeful elation at the natural thought of having even a _chance_ with the man. A long, glorious moment where he could see himself living here, or moving with the Wrights to a real apartment, sleeping with Phoenix, taking care of him and Trucy, helping build Phoenix back up into the man he used to be . . . but when he realized just what sort of competition he was against . . .

_If he's into people like Iris Hawthorne and Miles Edgeworth, I don't have a chance in hell. They're so . . . and I'm just . . ._

He'd never felt quite so inadequate in his life. Well, okay, maybe this didn't quite measure up to being sent back to the orphanage from yet another foster home, but it was a close second.

And besides, just because Phoenix liked men didn't mean that Phoenix liked _him_, now did it? Or worse, what if he didn't, but decided to be with Apollo just because there was no one else? He didn't think his boss would be that deliberately cruel, but when a person was lonely . . . Apollo, of all people, knew just how isolation, and the fear of it, could push a person to act out of character. After all, he'd spent hours at bars with his friends, flirting with girls that he cared nothing about.

He . . . he couldn't replace Miles Edgeworth, who had obviously been so special to Phoenix. And he didn't want to try.

Apollo decided, then and there, that no matter how much he wanted Phoenix, he'd never tell him. The potential pain of losing Phoenix and Trucy was a million times worse than anything he'd ever faced before. Even more so, the thought of Phoenix being with him out of pity, or as a way of replacing Mr. Edgeworth. The only thing Apollo could do for all of them was keep things exactly as they were.

He spent the next few hours trying to convince himself of just that.

He'd drifted off, finally, only to be mortified the next morning when he woke up wrapped up in Phoenix's arms, head tucked firmly under the man's chin, and a face-full of surprisingly firm chest. He'd been woken by Trucy's radio alarm blaring what sounded like a Gavinner's song at top volume, and both he and Phoenix had flinched at the sound, groaning as they were mutually ejected from their respective dreamscapes. They pulled apart in sleep-induced confusion and stared at each other blearily, trying to remember how they'd gotten there. When Apollo's brain clicked back on, he opened his mouth to stutter an apology, face reddening.

A hand clamped over his mouth, and Phoenix said, his voice raspy, "If you're about to explode from embarrassment, let me get out of the way, first. And don't break the Chords of Steel. You'll be needing them."

The hand dropped, and Apollo went to say something, though he wasn't sure what, when the door to Trucy's room burst open, unleashing a tidal wave of sound, and a pajama-clad demon shuffled out, hair sticking up in more directions than previously deemed possible, usually bright eyes squinting against the morning light, feet clad in the ugliest furry slippers known to man. Apollo honestly thought for a second that she'd found two identical bits of roadkill and stepped in them.

"G'mornin'daddy," the creature mumbled, dragging her feet on the way to the office bathroom. Apollo found himself holding his breath until the bathroom door was safely shut.

"You okay, kid?"

Apollo gave Phoenix a wide-eyed stare, before applying some brutal honesty to the situation: "Wright, even if I _had_ been attracted to Trucy before this, I think _that_ would have cured me for life."

Phoenix laughed, then gave him a push, "Go get ready for court."

It had been a surreal morning. He'd watched the demon slowly transform into Trucy, a process that was apparently hastened by leftover doughnuts from the previous morning. He'd also been scared out of his wits by an escaped rabbit that had managed to get closed up in the bathroom with him. A brush of fur against his ankles, and he'd been reduced to a less-than-manly shriek and had leapt up on top of the toilet in a display of dexterity that had surprised him. He'd had to be rescued by Phoenix, who'd made fun of his Blue Badger boxers before removing the offending bunny.

"_OBJECTION_!" Apollo bellowed at the retreating figure, "I REFUSE TO BE RIDICULED BY A MAN WHO OWNS PINK PRINCESS BOXERS!" Ahhh, and there was his Chords of Steel warm-up for the day, made all the sweeter by the sound of Trucy squalling, "Don't blame me, Daddy! He must have seen them when he helped me with the laundry!"

* * *

And now here he was, fending off the exhaustion that follows the doughnut-induced sugar rush, mind half on his 'battle' with Payne—he hadn't been bluffing when he'd told Wright that he had this one in the bag—and half running through all the various signals he'd learned.

Poor Payne tried his best, but under the weight of Apollo's increasing experience and the solid testimony and evidence, the jury unanimously voted 'Not Guilty,' and their defendant was freed, all before lunchtime. Apollo and Trucy accepted the heartfelt thinks of the defendant and his wife, then had a celebratory lunch at a local diner.

"So, Polly, what's up? You've been distracted all morning!" Trucy prodded.

"Just thinking about tonight," he answered honestly. He'd been trying very hard _not_ to think about anything . . . else. Besides his case, of course.

Her head tilted, eyes sparkling, "You're nervous, aren't you? Don't be! You're even better at perceiving people's twitches than I am!"

"Yeah, but that's only because of this." He held up the wrist with its ever-present bracelet. "You can do this without it, and since you're a magician, you're used to being all subtle and sneaky. I'm not so good with that."

She giggled, delighted at the dubious praise. "If you don't trust yourself, trust Daddy. He's the best for a reason."

"I know. He kicked my butt last night."

"He's got more tricks than us up his sleeve," she nodded.

"Yeah . . . it's kind of weird how the both of us have the same . . . ability, I guess you'd call it. I don't know anyone else who does. Did you?" Apollo said this slowly, the thought only really half-formed.

She shook her head. "You're the first person like me I've ever met."

"And I didn't even realize that I was, until you told me. I just thought my bracelet was tight on occasion. When I worked with Mr. Gavin, I guess I just got used to it going off all the time. It's _supposed_ to be pretty tight, after all."

"Is it?" Trucy didn't say anything else, but he saw her eyes glance at it with an open curiosity. He took a drink of his soda, trying to give her some privacy for her inner struggle. "Can . . . I . . . look at it?" she finally asked, blushing a little. "I mean, I know it's special to you, so you don't have to, I was just-"

He couldn't help but laugh, "It's okay, Truce. I . . . I know I can trust you with it." And he really did, he realized. To be a tease, he reached out his arm, laying his wrist on the table.

She laid a finger on the bracelet, hesitantly, following the patterns that trailed over it. "It's beautiful. Is it heavy?"

"Yeah, it's metal, after all. I don't know what kind."

She flipped his arm over, looking at the bottom. "I don't see a catch. How do you take it on and off?"

Apollo grinned, and took his hand back. With a dramatic flourish—that, ironically, he'd learned from watching her—he moved his soda over the center of the table and pressed the bracelet to the cold, condensation-covered glass. He felt that side of the metal start to relax and loosen, and when he deemed it slack enough, slid his hand free.

Trucy's eyes were wide, like he'd just pulled a rabbit out of the bracelet instead of just his hand. "Wow! That's amazing! Whatever it's made out of, I want some! Think of all the illusions I could make!" She was so genuinely excited that she nearly bounced in place.

He handed her the bracelet, and just watched as she fiddled with it. He felt . . . odd, without the comforting weight around his wrist. Unprotected. Naked. But he trusted Trucy implicitly. "Try it on, Truce."

"Really?"

"Really."

She carefully slipped off her gloves, which clinked suspiciously when she set them on the table, then slid a delicate hand through the ring of metal. After just a moment, it had tightened to fit her perfectly. "Polly! It's amazing! Oh! Oh! Lie to me! Think about heights! Anything!"

The rest of their lunch was spent in various attempts to fool the other, with Apollo definitely on the losing end. The game continued once they eventually decided to walk back to the Wright Anything Agency, picking out the nervous tics of the passers-by. By the time they made it back to the office, it was nearly two o'clock. Wright had managed to fold up the hide-a-bed again, but was sprawled out on the couch when they came in.

"Daddy, look!" Trucy flashed the bracelet at him.

Phoenix brows raised, but deadpanned, "I think you're a little young to get engaged, sweetie. And Polly, I'm ashamed that you led her so far astray."

Apollo just rolled his eyes, moving to set his briefcase on the desk. He flexed his left wrist again, still feeling slightly off-balance by the loss, but he didn't quite have the heart to ask for the bracelet back just yet.

That being said, Trucy noticed the action right away—probably because the item in question had tightened. "Oh, sorry, Polly. I'll just grab something cold from the fridge really quick."

"What, no frozen chicken in your panties today, Trucy?" Phoenix joked, rising from the sofa.

"Not today, Daddy. It's best to keep a wide variety of appearing objects, so that your audience never knows what to expect," she replied, dead serious. She flounced off, presumably to the office's mini-kitchen.

Wright gave a slight snort, "I never get bored with that kid."

Apollo chuckled as he started pulling out post-trial paperwork, "She's truly one-of-a-kind, and I can only be grateful." He set the papers on the desk, and was turning back to set the briefcase on the floor, out of the way, when his left elbow was gently grabbed.

Phoenix pulled his left wrist up where he could see it, rubbing a thumb across the lighter strip of skin. "It occurred to me that I've never seen you without it."

Apollo nodded, a little nervous. "I came to the orphanage with it. I was just a baby, but they gave it to me to wear when I was five, and it hasn't really left my arm since." He thought about that for a moment, "Well, unless I'm going swimming. Which is why I don't."

"Don't or can't?"

"Pick one."

"Interesting." Phoenix still hadn't released him, and judging by his eyes, he was thinking about something else, something that weighed on him. Apollo felt the slightest tremor as his body responded to the tension, but without the bracelet, he wasn't sure which of them was setting it off. Feeling the beginning of a blush, he tugged his wrist free, grateful that Trucy was returning, holding his bracelet in her hand. Putting it back on made him feel better immediately.

"Thanks, Polly! It was really neat to see how it works for you!"

"You're welcome." And he meant it.

She looked him over. "You need to get home and changed."

"I do?"

"Well, you don't necessarily want to go to Daddy's poker game wearing your suit, do you?"

Ah, good point. "I see what you mean. What time do I need to be back, Mr. Wright? Or should I meet you there?"

Phoenix was still standing where Apollo had left him, still apparently thinking hard. It took another two tries before they could get his attention. "Oh . . . right, meet me there. Don't wear the suit, of course. In fact, if you've got a hat, wear it."

Apollo tried to remember if he had one. "I think . . . I've got a baseball cap around the apartment somewhere. Maybe. I'll see what I can do."

"I'd also suggest a sweater. The place gets a bit chilly."

"Gotcha."

The first thing Apollo did was go home and take a nap to make up for being a creepy stalker fanboy all night. Then he got up and took a long shower, running through all of his cues in his mind. Trucy had had all sorts of advice for him at lunch—namely about how to act, since he couldn't pull the 'this is my Daddy' card. He had to come off as a good acquaintance, even a friend, but casual enough that they wouldn't give off the impression of being a 'team,' per se.

Because yeah, subterfuge was _so_ his greatest strength.

He eventually found his old college ball cap, and wore it backwards, cringing at the nostalgia. Of course, rather than tucking his bangs through the hole, or gelling them, he kind of tucked them under the hat itself, afraid that they might wind up giving the game away, so to speak. Then he proceeded to try and figure out how many layers he could wear. He'd been to the Borscht Bowl Club once and nearly come out with frostbite, so he put on a long-sleeved shirt under his T-shirt, some jeans and sneakers, then groaned when he looked in the mirror.

He looked _Trucy's_ age.

On the plus side, he didn't look like Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney.

* * *

Two hours into the game, and he was certain of one thing: he was going to die. Either of cold or embarrassment, he wasn't sure.

Mr. Wright was up against a half-dozen supposed "professionals," all of whom seemed to have formed some sort of poker . . . gang? Did it really count as a gang? It made Apollo think of the MIT card-counting group from all those years ago, except these guys were unrepentant _jerks_. If they weren't making snide comments to or about Phoenix, they were picking on _him_.

When he'd walked in, his boss had been sitting at the piano, thankfully not playing, but chatting with his opponents. He'd introduced Apollo as a friend of his, and fielded off all the comments about jailbait with a shrug and a smirk that made Apollo want to punch him on principle, even as his stomach did funny little flips. All eight of them, plus the dealer, had been searched for hidden cards—Wright had made a funny sort of growling noise in his throat when Apollo's guy got more 'frisky' than needed—and they'd made their way down to the little room, which had been cleared of almost everything, just to make room for the extra people.

Apollo couldn't help but grin a little when he watched Phoenix check all of his pockets again before heading down the stairs. Who ever said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks?

Mr. Wright played each person in a row, switching between the blue and red decks. Apollo had had the foresight to slide his bracelet a little higher on his arm so that if it tightened, it wouldn't pinch as much, making him less likely to jump if it did. As he and Phoenix had worked out before, he focused on trying to perceive each opponent's type of tension, whether good or bad, and would try to convey that information for every hand, using various 'twitches' of his own.

The first game, the guy was disappointed to lose, but fairly nice about it. The second loss was grumbled about, but, as they said, they were going up against a champion, right?

By the third loss, the group was getting annoyed, to the point that all of Apollo's attention had to be firmly focused on the player, lest he be distracted by all the rising emotions around them.

Loser number four was pretty upset, and the next thing anyone knew, he was calling for another search of all the players. Phoenix and Apollo submitted, and of course, they weren't hiding anything, but the anger in the room was getting palpable, though Phoenix was doing his best to laugh it off.

After the fifth game, Apollo was suddenly, _terribly_ afraid that the guy, who probably outweighed _both_ of them by a hundred pounds, might actually _hit_ Phoenix, but all he did was slam the table and stalk off.

Phoenix leaned back, looking much more relaxed than he really was, and cheerfully called for the next player. "C'mon, now, let's see if you can win back some of your friends' money!"

The last player sat himself down, already looking furious, "You better be ready, old man. And if we catch you cheating, you better believe you'll be in a world of fucking hurt."

Phoenix tried to smile disarmingly, "We all have to lose sometimes, friend. Maybe tonight it'll be me, or maybe it'll be you. It's all up to the cards, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Dealer, let's get this going."

Apollo was fighting back a wave of fear. These men were _not_ happy, and he had the distinct impression that when Phoenix won this game—and he had enough faith to know that he _would, _indeed, be winning this final round—that someone was going to flip. He almost couldn't read the player because of the energy level in the room. He'd rather stare down a dozen of the worst murderers he'd come across in court than be here right now. At least then, there were bailiffs to discourage actual violence..

The chips were distributed about evenly, when the opponent pulled out all the stops and bet his entire stack which would decimate the loser's chances at recovery. From his seat, Apollo had watched Phoenix's cards—he'd had two pair, one of sixes, one of Queens. He gave up his four of clubs and received another Queen. Now he was holding a full house with three Queens and two sixes. An average hand, which could go either way.

Apollo concentrated on the other guy, trying to feel out the nuances. He suddenly realized that the other, already beaten players were equally tense, but in a way that felt positive.

They were certain that their guy was going to win.

But the man across the table felt differently. He was exuding a sharp edge of fear, sliding towards guilt, that Apollo didn't understand. He heard Phoenix take a deep breath, and when Apollo glanced over, Phoenix had his eyes closed, his brow furrowed.

"Well, old man? Call or fold. Either way, your perfect streak is up," boasted the other opponent, sounding more confident than he felt.

Phoenix sighed, then looked across the table. At the dealer. "Anya."

The girl straightened immediately, shock on her face, "Um, da?"

"You know if you did it, you're fired. Among other things."

Her face drained of color, "I—I don't know what you're talking about." Her affected Russian accent had disappeared.

Phoenix's face hardened, and he abruptly slid his pile forward. "Fine then, it's your funeral. Show 'em."

The other guy, looking suddenly nervous (to Apollo, anyway. Anyone else might have missed the slight paling and the tremor of his fingers,) laid his cards out.

A royal flush, which included the 10, Jack, Queen, King and Ace of Spades.

For a moment, the significance went over Apollo's head, but then Phoenix revealed his hand, the full house.

Two sixes. Three queens—and the Queens were of Hearts, Diamonds and Spades.

Two Queens of Spades.

The room suddenly got a lot louder, all of the group yelling accusations at Phoenix, trying to place the blame on him. Phoenix tried to yell over them, but finally looked at Apollo with a beseeching look.

Jumping to his feet, Apollo put his Chords of Steel to good use, bellowing one of the phrases he loved best: "**_HOLD IT_**!"

The silence afterward made his ears ring a bit, but it was worth it to see the hilariously stunned looks on their faces.

Phoenix pulled himself to his feet at well. Leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, he said, enunciating clearly. "It is obvious that someone in this room has been cheating. It is also evident that our house dealer, hired only last week, is in on it."

"Yeah, she's _your_ house dealer, you crook!"

"She was also hired about the same time your group made their appointment for tonight, which makes her additionally suspect." Phoenix continued. "Anyone care to confess, so we can settle this amicably?"

"Fuck you," said one of the players. Apollo was pretty sure he was number three. "We want our money back, you swindler!"

Phoenix nodded, like he'd been expecting that. "If we could prove that _I_ was the one cheating, that would indeed be agreeable. However, between the card count for the game in question, plus whatever we'll find on the footage from the security camera-"

There was another burst of protest, "What camera?" "We didn't know there'd be no camera!" "You can't do that!"

"Oh _yes_, we can." Wright's tone was firm. "It protects us as much as you all, in the case of cheating, or in case the police are ever called here. That's why you were required to pay upfront, so that we can honestly prove that there was never any money exchanged in these games. I suspect that an overview of the surveillance will uncover our cheater. And that cheater, of course, will be made known to the local community. Assuming, of course, that your whole troupe wasn't involved in some way."

Apollo wasn't breathing by this point. He knew perfectly well that it was a blatant lie-after all, if there WAS surveillance, it would have come up during Phoenix's trial. He was starting to understand how the man had ended up being punched, tazed, and generally abused in his lawyer days.

"Or," Phoenix continued in a much friendlier voice, "We can all go our merry ways, right now. I don't want to see you in here again, but if you leave without a fuss, I'll keep my . . . suspicions . . . to myself."

"And what about our money?" snarled the number four player.

Phoenix looked off toward the ceiling and recited as if off a grocery list, "As gambling is illegal in the state of California, any and all monetary transactions to the Borscht Bowl Club are considered as either payment for services or non-refundable donations-"

"Like _hell_, you son of a—"

The room's tension finally snapped as the biggest one of the bunch took a swing at Phoenix.

The next thing he knew, Apollo was being hauled up by the collar by one of the players. He quickly smashed his foot down on the guy's instep, then swung an elbow up into his face.

Living in an orphanage and foster care had taught him a lot of useful skills.

He was quite used to being the smaller opponent, and so used his lower center of gravity to his advantage. That being said, it was two against six, and it didn't take long before he got a right hook to the face, knocking him to the floor.

He dimly heard a male voice calling his name, but he was busy trying to get back on his feet. Someone kicked him in the shoulder, forcing him back down, and he swung a leg out and hit someone else right below the kneecap, dislocating it. While the others were distracted by the painful wail, he grabbed his bracelet, slid it down to it's regular place, then bashed it into the nearest knee—probably belonging to whomever had kicked _him_.

"_Ow!_ Fuck, someone finish this kid off!"

Before 'someone' could do so, however, there was a deafening roar, comprised mostly of Russian epithets, and punctuated by the sound of a baseball bat hitting the wall as the owner of the Borscht Bowl Club, Pavel Petrov, descended upon the chaos. As he was almost seven feet tall, 300 pounds, and obviously not shy about beating the shit out of the interlopers who were messing with his business, he cut quite the heroic figure to Apollo.

Within a few minutes, the crowd had parted like the Red Sea, and the troupe had been sent upstairs and out of the restaurant, the threats of litigation combined with a bat upside the head working wonders.

As soon as he realized he was safe, Apollo promptly lay back on the floor to catch his breath, and closed his eyes.

TBC

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's been reading! I think there's another chapter to go, before this particular fic is done, but unfortunately, I seem to have several more up my sleeve, as it were. _

Also, any advice on page breaks would be nice. Seems like no matter what I do, ff(dot)net doesn't seem to show them . . .


	4. Chapter 4

Apollo closed his eyes for only a second, but apparently, that was long enough for him to be carried upstairs, laid out on a couch in the owner's office, and divested of his hat. The next thing he was aware of was Phoenix's voice softly urging him to wake up, worry evident in his tone. He felt fingers stroking his bangs, which limply framed his face without the usual gel holding them up.

And speaking of limp, if he _ever_ got a hold of that bastard that clocked him . . .

He slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the overhead light that was in his eyes. "Whazzafurmugle?" he asked, willing his vision to clear.

The blob in front of him sharpened up just as Phoenix broke into a relieved grin, despite what looked like a painful split lip. "You okay, Polly?"

The nickname reminded Apollo of the burning question he'd been asking himself since about the third round of cards: "Why the _hell_ have you been bringing _Trucy_ to these games if shit like this happens?"

Nick laughed, "I promise, she's never been there for an actual fight. Something about a little girl in the room seems to keep even the baddest of baddies from taking a swing at her daddy. I guess you don't inspire the same sort of mercy."

Apollo pulled himself slowly into a sitting position, trying to ignore the ache in his head. "Yeah, no one seems to think twice about beating up a hobo and his boy toy."

The other had the decency to blush a little. "You know, trying to argue with them would just have egged them on."

He shrugged. "Yeah, I know. Doesn't change that it was annoying. I don't like being made fun of, but I'd rather be made fun of for something that's true rather than something that isn't."

Phoenix actually opened his mouth to make a reply, but seemed to think better of it. He blushed, though; Apollo didn't need his bracelet to see it. ". . . Do you think you're ready to go home?"

"Uh . . . sure." Deliberately avoiding thinking too hard, Apollo numbly followed Phoenix out of the cramped office and out to the curb. To his surprise, the man stopped and waved down a passing cab. "Mr. Wright? I don't think-"

"Phoenix. And I just got paid, remember?"

"Not really," Apollo admitted as the slid into the seat. "Last thing I saw was a bunch of guys who seemed really determined that they were going to get their money back."

Phoenix glanced pointedly at the driver before responding, "Yes, well, that's the thing about donations. If you pledge a certain amount in a fit of altruism, you can't just take it back once you start feeling selfish again."

He was hard pressed not to laugh, "Right."

"Hmm?"

"Uh, I meant, sure."

The cab pulled up in front of the office, and Phoenix tugged on Apollo's wrist, "C'mon. Trucy will be up waiting, and she won't go to bed 'till she sees both of us."

* * *

"Welcome ho—oh! _Polly! _Your _face!_ Daddy, you were supposed to watch out for him!"

"Hey, _I_ didn't hit him! And wait a sec, look at _me_! I've got a black eye _and_ a busted mouth. Where's _my_ sympathy?"

"The same place mine was when you laughed at me getting flash paper burns."

"That was when you were _ten!_"

"C'mere, Polly, sit down on the couch. Daddy'll get you an ice pack, _won't he_?"

"Yeah, yeah . . ." Phoenix shuffled off to the kitchen.

Trucy fussed over Apollo (and eventually Phoenix as well) like a mother hen, conjuring a bottle of painkillers _and _two glasses of water, poking fun at Apollo's lack of hair gel, making them sit on the couch and tell her what happened, who did what, Mr. Petrov's intervention, etc. Apollo wanted to know if that was his real name, and was relatively unsurprised to find it was a nickname, as was Anya.

"Wait, the dealer? What happened to her?"

Phoenix's face turned into a grim smirk. "She's been fired, and the boss'll no doubt make sure her picture makes the rounds of the poker community."

"You know, in the span of time I've known you, that's the second shady dealer."

"You _do_ realize that we're dealing with a group of people who break the law for a living, right?"

". . ."

"It's true!" Trucy chirped happily, "It's like Daddy told me about the bar. He got all serious one day and said, 'Remember Truce, what you see is what you get. If some guy tries to pick you up after a show, this is a guy who goes to bars to pick up underage girls.'"

That . . . made sense, but Apollo felt a sudden desire to attend Trucy's next show with a baseball bat. In any case, he also pointed out, "Yeah, but appearances are deceiving, right? Look at your dad. He looks like a creep-"

"I prefer the term 'hobo,' thank you."

"-but you and I both know that he's actually a nice guy, right?"

Trucy put on a mock-serious face, "I don't know . . . he _is_ kind of mean."

"Hold it!" Phoenix protested.

Apollo nodded, "That's true. Look at the way he plays chessmaster with everybody."

She nodded, "He's definitely evil mastermind material!"

"Objection!"

"And just think of all those poor people at the Borscht Bowl that he made listen to him play . . ."

"And he won't let me keep Bullets in the office!"

"I said _objection,_ dammit!" _That_ earned them the legendary pointer finger.

"Listen to that mouth, Trucy. Is that the vocabulary of a nice guy?"

The two of them finally burst into laughter when they glanced over and saw the man sulking, and after a moment, he joined in as well.

"All right, if you're done, I think it's time for bed."

Apollo started, "Oh! Right, I guess I'd better head on home."

Trucy immediately protested, insisting that, with his injuries, he needed to stay overnight. Apollo wanted to protest, but couldn't figure out a way to do so that wouldn't end up with either Trucy or Phoenix wanting to know why. Within a few minutes, he was in the bathroom, changing into another set of Phoenix's sweats, and wincing at the _spectacular_ bruise that was forming on the left side of his face. Thank God he didn't have court

By the time he re-entered the office, the hide-a-bed was out, and Trucy was, once again, generously providing an extra pillow. Nick ambled off to the bathroom, and Apollo was—literally, and for the first time in years—being tucked into bed.

"You're not planning on making me levitate, are you?" he teased as she fussed with the blankets.

She grinned, "It'd be like sleeping on a cloud!"

He groaned.

"You know, it's odd, but with your bangs framing your face, you look . . . familiar."

"I should hope so," he teased.

She laughed, "No, I'm serious!"

Phoenix cleared his throat, causing them to jump with surprise. "C'mon, Truce. It's late." He saw her off to bed, and then turned off the office lights and crawled in with Apollo.

Great. Just great.

Apollo could already feel his cheeks heating as he remembered his thoughts from the previous night. He hoped that his boss would just drop off straightaway like the last time.

Instead, of course, Phoenix rolled so that they were facing. Before Apollo could make up his mind whether to just close his eyes and feign sleep or roll over and risk seeming rude, the other's hand slowly extended and fingertips slowly touched his cheekbone.

Apollo froze. He couldn't even _breathe._ Why was . . .?

"Sorry. For this."

The soft, sincere apology confused Apollo for a moment before he remembered the bruise. _ Oh. Right_. _Focus, Justice._ "It's . . . it's not your fault, really. And it's not like you didn't get hurt, too."

Phoenix 'hmmed' distractedly, still stroking Apollo's cheek. "I'm used to it."

Apollo managed a weak smirk, "All part of the risk of being a poker player, huh?"

A laugh. "Hell, I was taking shots as a lawyer, too. I had one guy not only punch me, but get me on the stand for the murder _he_ committed." Phoenix snickered again at the look on Apollo's face. "I won, obviously."

"Uh . . . obviously."

"So . . . any questions?"

"Qu-questions?"

Phoenix smiled, "I think it's safe to say you helped me win a few hands."

Apollo's mind started racing, trying to think of something good to ask. There _was_ one thing that was bothering him: "How did you know the other guy and the dealer cheated?"

Nick shifted, looking a little smug. "You _did_ notice the extra Queen, right?" he teased.

He rolled his eyes, "Don't play dumb. You knew _before_ the cards were down. How?"

"Ah. That's one of my super gambling secrets. It's like being a magician, I can't tell just anyone." At Apollo's pout, he smirked again. "All right, all right. I guess you count as special."

"Why can I sense a short bus joke in there somewhere?"

"I was counting the cards."

"Wait, what? I thought that was a blackjack trick."

"That kind of card counting is designed for Vegas, with multiple decks mixed in together. I just kept track of what was in our two decks. I'd noticed that as the night went on, I was seeing duplicate cards. I thought at first the dealer was shuffling badly, but when I saw two tens of hearts in two consecutive hands on the fifth game—which was the third game for the blue deck—I knew she was adding cards."

"Adding cards? How? I thought they were two different colors just to avoid that?" Hell, Phoenix's last murder charge had hinged on it!

Phoenix sniggered. "Polly, if we _only_ had the two decks, we'd have gone out of business after Zak's death. We've got plenty of card decks locked up in the restaurant office, and only Pavel, the dealer, and I have access to them. She probably grabbed a few high cards and was feeding them into the deck as she dealt to my opponents. However, once the game was over, it would have been difficult to get back out, so she just had to hope I didn't notice."

"Wow. I think I never want to play professionally. You're tough enough."

Phoenix shrugged, "I've got a gift for flying by the seat of my pants. Miles-" he paused for a moment, and Apollo was able to see a faint cringe in the brown eyes, "He . . . he used to say that God protects children and fools, and that's the only reason Larry and I have survived so long."

Apollo had so many things he wanted to ask about, but the only thing he could say to the look in Phoenix's eyes was a soft, "Why isn't he here, with you?"

Phoenix's hand jerked away, and even in the dark, he flushed. Apollo's bracelet was digging into his wrist, forcing him to see the faint lines of pain on his face. He felt immediately sorry for asking, but he felt like he couldn't, shouldn't let the man retreat into himself. Scooting forward a little, he reached out and laid a hand on Phoenix's shoulder, a little surprised at himself for being so forward. He wasn't used to . . . _touching_ people, no matter the circumstances.

"Phoenix, I know . . . I mean, it's not my business, but I . . . I figured it out, and . . . I just . . ," he struggled to find the right words. "I guess I can't understand why you're so alone. It's not fair! I mean, you're . . ." He trailed off, aware that he was blushing enough to probably outshine a lava lamp. Nick's shoulder under his hand was tense, and his eyes were cold, but he had this odd sense that he was comforting the man, even if just a little.

"You're right," Phoenix said, very quietly. "Miles and I . . . we were together. As much as we could be, I guess."

"As much as you could be?"

"Miles went abroad to study law, so he was gone a lot. He'd come to visit, but . . . well, he was gone when I got disbarred. He's got some pretty tight connections over here, so he was informed immediately of what happened—I think Gumshoe called him. He flew back, but it was too late." His brows furrowed. "He tried to help, but the committee started dropping hints that maybe _his_ previous cases needed to be looked over, since he was clearly fraternizing with a known forger."

"But—!" Apollo was set to explode when a hand clamped over his mouth.

"Hey, Trucy's in bed. Technically, we're supposed to be sleeping, too." Apollo hummed an apology, and Phoenix released him. "In any case, we had a falling out soon after. He didn't approve of me quote unquote 'giving up,' like I did. And he didn't approve of me taking Trucy in."

Apollo gasped. "I thought that was the bravest thing I'd ever heard!" he hissed, trying to be quietly outraged.

"Miles disagreed. He thought I was being overly sentimental, which I may have been. I couldn't see putting her in an orphanage—ah, um, sorry, I-"

"It's fine."

"Trucy gave me something I needed. She's the only reason I was able to keep going. I mean, my friends were calling and coming by, but Trucy was there, literally all the time. Every morning when I woke up, I couldn't just lay in bed and cry, I had to get up and make her breakfast. I couldn't just wallow in my misery. I had to keep things going, get a job, move out of my apartment, everything. A child is a powerful motivation.

"And she believed in me, more than anyone else. There was never a question in her mind that, if we worked together, we'd be fine." Phoenix was smiling again, love shining in his eyes in a way that made Apollo's throat tighten with emotion. It was rare that Phoenix actually seemed like a _parent_ when Trucy was involved, but in this moment, it was as blatant as one of Klavier's come-ons.

"I'm glad you did," he teased gently. "I might have liked you a lot less without her to be a buffer."

Phoenix laughed then, "I think I'd like me a lot less, too." He grew quiet, then, but his eyes were still shining with mirth. "Thanks. Things have really changed for the better lately, and it's because of you."

Oh God, he was blushing again, "Uh . . . I—I didn't-"

"You did. When I was on the stand, you really believed that I couldn't have done it. Believing in your client is the most important part of being a defense attorney. And being a friend." He gently poked Apollo's forehead. "Now, enough of that. We need to go to sleep."

Unable to speak, Apollo just nodded and snuggled further into his borrowed pillow. All the emotional sharing—not to mention the night's earlier events, were taking their toll, and he was pretty sure he could actually fall asleep now. Even if his stomach was so full of butterflies that he felt like he might puke.

As he started to drift, another question surfaced in his mind. "Hey, Nick?"

"Hmm?"

"Why grape juice?"

A sleepy grunt that may have been a laugh. "Trucy's idea. So that I wasn't drinking anything _else."_

And finally, a long-time mystery, solved. Apollo fell into sleep, feeling content.

FIN

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's read so far! I know, I know, I didn't get them as far as I was hoping I would, _ but I've learned never to mess with my muses. If they say it's not time, it's not time. Trust me, I'm as disappointed as you are.

That being said, this isn't the end of the JustWright universe, oh no. I've got plot bunnies coming out of my ears. Now that Phoenix and Apollo are starting to open up to each other, I definitely see some significant confessions here in the near future. In fact, excuse me; I have some more wrighting to do.

I mean, writing.

Good god, this series has taken over my brain...

P.S. For reference, what Phoenix said about Trucy, I believe to be especially true. I'm a single mom, and I was dumped by my husband while I was pregnant. My daughter is the reason I fight so hard to give us a better life, rather than just coast along like I probably would if it were just me. So, in essence, I guess this is dedicated to my daughter, Kelsa Rose. 3


End file.
